


Stranger Times

by TimmyJaybird



Series: Sleepless Nights [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Sock Garters, and some feels - Freeform, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim could have ignored, could have thought of that one night as a dream from a sleepless night. But Oswald is there again, and Barbara's ghost is stuck inside Jim's head, leaving him drowning and wanting in too many ways- leaving him lost, stuck between desire, curiosity, and self hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Times

**Author's Note:**

> Oops it turned into a series. There's only one more part, hopefully with school it won't take too long to write.
> 
> Also, no one can tell me Oswald doesn't wear sock garters and doesn't have cold feet. Sorry.
> 
> Be advised that the third part is gonna have some less savory bits. Should be fun.

Jim looked up when the chair opposite his desk was shoved back, Harvey pushing himself up and nearly toppling over his mug of now cold, stale coffee. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but Harvey offered only a glare, a tight lipped stare- and he was grabbing his jacket and turning, giving Jim only his back as he disappeared.

He’d barely spoken to Jim since Oswald turned up alive. A pariah among the GCPD, Jim felt plagued, a leper among his own people. He knew eventually Harvey would have to talk to him- he just hoped it was before he blabbed to the wrong people about the man being alive. Jim didn’t want Fish’s wrath raining down on him- not yet anyway.

Heaving a sigh, his chest heavy like lead, he pushed his own chair back, slinging his jacket on and heading out of the building. His paperwork he left scattered on his desk- another task for another day, when he wasn’t tired, if that ever happened. He didn’t think it would.

He found the apartment empty, a note from Barbara that she was out for the evening with a friend- that she would be late, if she came home at all. The past week had left her foreign to him, he realized. Ever since Oswald clawed up through the cracks of his reality construction, everything had been turned on its head.

Jim sucked on his teeth thinking about the lanky man- the man with the cool fingers, with the bird inside the cage of his chest. He made a line for the kitchen, for his whiskey, drank down a glass and stripped of his jacket, loosening his tie as he poured another. With Barbara to tell him to put the bottle down, he could easily make the last half disappear that night. He needed it now, feeling as if the world, the city, was caving in slowly- leaning and tipping, ready to crash in on his head, cave in his skull and leave him a forgotten mystery beneath the rubble.

Fish would have him removed from the fabric of time if she heard that Oswald was alive. And Jim knew it would be soon- he was shocked he had made it a week. He couldn’t imagine Oswald keeping a low profile.

Jim untied his tie, downed half his glass, just as the door bell buzzed. Frowning, Jim held his glass and walked over, knowing Barbara would never forget her key. Could it be Harvey? Did he want to talk this shit through on their own time- maybe knock some sense into him and his teeth in? Or Fish, ready to call in a hit and be done with him, wipe his blood off her pretty hands and move on digging her claws into the fabric of the city?

He didn’t bother checking- he almost didn’t care. What could he do anyway? He’d face this shit and claw his way out or die trying.

When the door opened though, it wasn’t Harvey standing there, or Fish, or anyone ready to cave his skull in. It was Oswald, with his endearing and awkward smile and bright eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” Jim mumbled, not stepping aside- instead taking a sip of his drink. Oswald’s smile didn’t disappear, but his eyes did flick once along Jim’s face, his neck, as far as his collar bone.

“Checking in on you, old friend. You were pretty banged up last time I saw you.” Jim shrugged it off- his bruises had healed, his aches had passed and been replaced with new ones-

Except the one in his gut when he remembered cool finger tips, the heat of being pressed back against Oswald’s chest- an ache he indulged in late at night if Barbara slept and he was left to stare out the windows at the city far below. An ache he did not acknowledge, that he ignored even when his cock was in his hand and his head was tipped back.

Jim didn’t have time to think about it, to dissect it, decipher what the fuck it meant that he thought about the man when he could be wrapped around Barbara, when he should be fearing for his own life on the streets. To think on it was the actualize it, to accept it as a problem, and he didn’t want that. Jim could live in denial if he wanted to.

“Yeah well, I’m all patched up now.” He finished his whiskey, felt Oswald’s eyes on his throat as he swallowed. “You shouldn’t be here. If Fish sees you, I’m fucked so far up shit creek that I’ll never get back home.”

“Let me in and she won’t see me.” That smile softened a touch, faded at the edges. Jim narrowed his eyes, tightened his grip on the door like he might slam it- then, against his better judgement, against the voice inside his skull that recognized his problems, saw through his denial, and screamed to cut Oswald from his very reality, he stepped aside, giving Oswald just enough space to slip inside, their chest brushing for just a moment. Jim closed and locked the door, walked towards the kitchen, intent on filling his glass again.

“Just tell me you’re not parading around the city,” he called, pouring the glass, filling it far more than he should, and coming back. Oswald had stripped of his jacket, dropped it on the arm of the couch, and was easing down into it neatly, as if there were strict, clearly labeled boundaries as to where he could and could not exist, what he could and could not touch. Jim watched him complete the motion, took a quick sip of his drink.

“I’m good at hiding in plain sight,” Oswald offered, hands folding in his lap. Childish, almost.

“Keep it that way then. So what are you doing here?”

“I told you, checking in.”

“I don’t buy it.” Jim took another sip, walking towards the man, stopping in front of him, their legs brushing. “Truth, Oswald. Don’t make me force it out.”

Jim didn’t know what he was looking for- he knew what he hoped for, buried under the denial and the layers of lies he fed himself every morning. But Oswald’s eyes yielded something, darkened as his smile dropped away.

“Can’t I want to see a friend again?”

“Go play with your other friends.” For a moment, Jim felt like he was talking to a child. “I’m too busy to play.”

Oswald didn’t say anything for a moment- he inhaled, the faintest of sounds, the smallest movement of his chest, and then, softly, “I don’t have any other friends.” Jim felt his body loosen at that, the tight aggravation that masked excitement ebbing. He held his glass at his side, and when Oswald’s legs moved slightly, he pushed between them, standing there like brick, like mortar and stone, and Oswald glanced up, before leaning forward, one arm linking around his waist, his face finding Jim’s warmth and pressing into it.

Jim didn’t know what to do, he stood there and let Oswald press against him, offering not comfort, not a touch- until finally his hand lifted, fingers flexed, then found the back of his head, stroked his short, dark hair. It was soft, too soft, like Oswald was just a toy that had been broken, his seams ripped, his batteries dying. Rusting on the edges and thrown in the trash to be left as nothing more then a flicker in old Christmas photos.

“It’s hard pretending to be dead,” he whispered, “but it’s harder when it’s actually easy. Easy to convince everyone.” He left the rest in the air, a thought on his tongue- _because they never saw you_.

Jim stroked his hair again, tried to thread his fingers into it as best as possible. Oswald breathed into him, and then Jim forced away, pulling until he was separate, had his skin back again, a small sound escaping the man that- from the look in his pale, ghostly eyes, he had never meant to utter.

But then Jim was setting his whiskey aside, sliding down onto the couch next to him, offering the curve of his side, his chest, as if he were comforting Barbara. Oswald slid in easily, locked into place, and Jim gripped his shoulders.

“I never thanked you,” he offered, as the man shifted, pressed closer, a hand resting on Jim’s stomach, fingers flexing- points of coolness, of clarity. He didn’t specify for what, nor did he feel he needed to. Oswald simply nodded- wouldn’t look at Jim, and the man wondered if it was whiskey in his blood or the man’s heat against him that made his stomach clench almost painfully, made his own blood sear beneath flesh.

Why did he fit so perfectly?

Why did his finger tips promise to map the earth and stars if given a canvas?

Why did Jim not shove him away and lock himself back into his room of denial, his prison of stone walls and endless chambers to hide the heat of attraction in his flesh and brain and blood?

“Where are you staying?” Jim asked then, needing to speak, to move his tongue and give life to something other than desire and concern.

“With my mother.” Oswald glanced up to Jim nodding, pushing himself up so he was level with him, staring into his eyes with those frozen oceans, ash and sea and a chill that would never warm no matter the fire lit.

“As long as you have somewhere safe to go.” Jim mumbled it, saw that Oswald’s eyes flickered, as if there was nothing correct about the statement, but he didn’t push. Didn’t push the subject, or Oswald’s hand as it slipped off his stomach and to his waist, gripping onto his shirt- didn’t push him as he breathed in Jim’s exhale, the secrets in his spent breath.

There were two realities, and Jim knew, in the split second of that stare, that he would have to pick one. He could keep his facade, he could push Oswald back- he didn’t have to force him out, but he had to confine him back to his space his lines that he seemed to originally think were printed on the couch, markers for his space versus the rest of the world. Or he could keep him, in that moment, that stare, that breath.

He could keep him and allow the lie to dissolve into the truth.

Jim reached up, grasping at the back of Oswald’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, pressing whiskey flavored lips to his. His mouth yielded, soft and forgiving and trusting, warm like he had sucked the heat form his fingers and held it against his tongue, in his cheeks. Jim held him as he tested those lips, pressing, easing back, pressing again, until Oswald was gripping at his collar, so tightly he threatened to pop a button. His body shifted, trying to get closer, almost trying to crawl onto Jim, offering up whatever angle, whatever intensity, that the other man wanted.

Jim sucked in a breath, then Oswald’s lower lip, pressed it between his teeth, was given a small mewl as his prize. His other arm wound around the man’s slim waist, gripped him into place as he released it, lapped his tongue against it once for good measure.

Jim wanted to say Oswald couldn’t tell a soul, that this was between them and Gotham couldn’t know- Barbara couldn’t know. But the words didn’t come. Oswald looked too young, there, childlike, but his cool hands found Jim’s face and held it steady as he leaned in, kissed him again, flicking his tongue against his lips and forcing his mouth open. Jim allowed it, gripped his waist, pulling him fully onto his lap, hands coming around, working the buttons on his shirt.

He shut down, shut it all out. The screams over what he was doing, with who. Jim shut it out like he was learning to do with so much in this city, and let it all go, mindlessly. His fingertips brushed small patches of pale skin as he opened Oswald’s shirt, as he worked it down his shoulders. He had to untangle Oswald’s hands from him to shove it off, toss it away on the floor.

When he pulled back, his hands fond the smaller’s man thighs, rubbed up them, thumbs stroking at their juncture. Oswald whimpered, then inhaled, sharp, exhaled- repeated, frantic and tensing. Jim pulled back, hands falling back towards his knees.

“Hey,” he whispered- softer than he meant, more concerned than he meant. The situation sank in then, past the whiskey have and the heat in his blood- he was on his couch with Oswald Cobblepot on his lap, his mouth tasted like the mint of this young man’s, and all he wanted to do was dive back in.

He was in deep, too deep. He was drowning.

“Take a deep breath,” Jim offered, Oswald still breathing sharp and shallow. The man sucked in the air, held it as Jim leaned forward and sealed his lips over his, only exhaling when the detective pulled back, offering him that freedom. “Should I stop?” _Please don’t make me stop_.

“No one...no one touches me,” Oswald whispered, fingers tugging on Jim’s shirt. Jim frowned, then, carefully moving him, stood up, stripping of his own shirt and leaving it discarded.

“Look, we’re even now,” he offered, then kicked his shoes off. “You’re even ahead.” He cracked a grin- a real one, the kind that made Jim’s cheeks hurt after a moment. Oswald offered a faint smile, but it didn’t bring that crease around his eyes, the crinkle of skin, of truth.

Jim leaned down, pecked his lips, whispering, “We can stop.”

“I want you again.” Oswald’s voice had a shake to it, a single tremor, truth forced through a netting that should have captured it. “But...you can’t touch me.”

Jim fell back onto the couch, fingers trailing along the other man’s arm. “What if you do it yourself?” _You’re crazy. You’re mad. You deserve whatever shit this brings down on you, Gordon._ But Jim didn’t care about his inner voice, his truth. He was a different man and it was liberating.

“No. No no no.” Oswald was shaking his head, “No, I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t.” He reached up, pressing his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. That’s filthy, it’s what bad boys do-“ his voice cracked into a whine, and Jim pulled his hand back, before thinking better and reaching out, rubbing both hands along Oswald’s upper arms.

“Okay, okay, hold on a second. Take a deep breath.” Oswald cracked his eyes open, and Jim leaned closer. “Look at me. Like this.” He inhaled, held it for a count of five, exhaled. When he did it again, Oswald followed, then again, and again, until his breathing had calmed. Jim removed himself from the couch once the man had calmed, flicking the light off and letting the apartment sink into darkness. “There’s no reason to be nervous about never having...been with anyone, really.” Jim offered, hoping the black was a blanket, the kind the man could wrap himself in. “If you want to stop, we can. If not...then you just have to trust me.”

Jim could see Oswald staring in the dark. A moment passed, and then a nod, and Jim settled back on to couch, reaching for him and beckoning him. Oswald straddled his lap, allowed Jim to rub his thighs again. “Close your eyes,” Jim whispered, and the man did, his mouth in the slightest part as Jim stroked. “Do you trust me?”

“Friends trust each other.” It was the most affirmation Jim knew he’d get, and he contemplated a minute stopping entirely. But Oswald squirmed a little, liked the touch and his kisses and had _wanted him_ \- Jim just couldn’t understand the aversion, the fear. When his thumbs found the juncture of Oswald’s thighs again, he leaned forward, kissed his bare neck with his open mouth, heating flesh.

“Inhale,” he whispered, and Oswald did. A moment passed, Jim’s thumbs pressing, gently. “Exhale.” Again, he did, and Jim kissed higher, towards his ear. His hands moved towards the fastening of his pants, popped the button, pulled down his fly. “Inhale,” he whispered below his ear- was obeyed, and he reached in, palming at Oswald’s cock through the cotton of his underwear. The man tensed, and Jim sucked on his ear lobe, kept his hand as a still, hot presence. “Exhale,” he breathed in his ear, and the man did- shaky but long. “I’m not hurting you,” he reminded, this time kissing his cheek affectionately- more so than he meant- as he massaged gently. “You’re safe here.”

“Safe.” The word was a mumble, fell from Oswald’s lips as he gasped, Jim’s hand pulling the blood from his body and to his cock. Jim nodded, moving back to nibble along his neck, his arm locked around his waist as he teased him.

In the dark, it was easier- Jim hoped, at least- for Oswald to fall into it, to allow the touch, to chase away whatever fear and anxiety boiled beneath his skin. Silently he wondered, but buried his curiosity. Another time he could worry about the _why_ , right now he simply wanted to get to the end result- Oswald’s breathy moans and a release from the rest of the world.

It was what Jim wanted too. A release from Gotham, from his very existence. A moment where it all stopped, ceased, and he transcended everything.

Carefully, closing his mouth and sucking on Oswald’s adam’s apple, his fingers slipped past the waistband of his underwear, brushing to head of his cock. Oswald stiffened, but Jim pushed his hand fully in, forcing the cotton down to cling at the base of his cock. He gripped it, ran his hand along the length, felt Oswald’s breath catch.

“Do you trust me?”

Oswald’s skin drank the words in, and Jim waited, still. A moment passed, and the man exhaled, nodding- Jim felt the movement. With that acknowledgement he stroked again, slow and long, feeling Oswald tremble slightly.Splaying his hand on his back, he leaned back out, sought his mouth out in the near dark and sucked his breath down- left Oswald dizzy. Jim kissed him lazily- but then Oswald’s hands were on his shoulders, gripping, nails digging into his skin.

Oswald kissed him desperately, like a dying man. Like he was searching for something, in Jim’s breath and blood and bones. A language only he knew, in the secrets of his body.

Jim stroked him, felt him shake again, those hands move to his head, hold him as Oswald leaned into the touch, rocking with him. Jim smiled, even as Oswald’s tongue pressed along his own. When he pulled back the smaller man gave a groan os disapproval.

“I want you to do it,” Jim whispered, and Oswald stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. No I can’t.” But Jim was taking one of his hands, guiding it down to his own- which had stilled. He laced their fingers together, holding Oswald’s cock between them, and guided him in a stroke, two.

“You can,” Jim whispered, finding his mouth again. “Move my hand to what feels good.” Jim stopped guiding him, moved only when Oswald’s hand did- took in the pace he desired, the way he squeezed towards his head.

When Jim finally pulled away, left only Oswald’s hand there, he moved faster, pushing into his own hand, rocking on Jim’s lap. He was mewling, little broken sounds and breath dropping like pearls from his lips, and Jim grabbed his face, kissed him like _he_ was dying now, wanting every pearl, every gasp, every drop of desire that found freedom from the man’s body. Oswald melted like ice water over him, squeezing his cock and crying out into Jim’s kiss as his belly tightened to a point of pain.

When his orgasm hit him like a cold wave, he nearly convulsed.

His free hand grabbed Jim’s arm, his cry swallowed down Jim’s throat, lost in oblivion as his shot white up onto his own stomach.

Jim eased him down, kisses growing softer, hands moving down to his shoulders, rubbing his arms- trying to bring life into chilled skin. He kissed Oswald until the man’s lips had to be swollen, until the cum on his belly had cooled, until he was squirming and Jim was _laughing_ when he had no reason to.

“Go clean up,” he whispered, resting his forehead against Oswald’s, “I’ll wait right here.”

Oswald slid from his lap and padded off in the dark, leaving Jim to reach for his forgotten whiskey, to leaned back into the couch and take a sip. His throat had burned for less then a breath when he heard footsteps outside the door- the locks turning, and in a moment he was moving, grabbing Oswald’s jacket and trying to shove it down under a pillow on the couch, grabbing their shirts and leaving them piled so they appeared as one. He was still standing when the door opened, when Barbara’s heels clicked inside.

“Jim?” She flicked on the light, took him in, standing there shirtless with his whiskey in hand, and frowned. “Baby, what are you doing, sitting in the dark?”

Jim didn’t say anything as she walked over, rubbing his upper arm. “Was it a rough day?” Jim forced a nod, saw her eyes flick to the whiskey. She reached for it, plucked it from his hand and set it aside, then kissed his cheek. “I came home to grab a few things. I was going to stay out tonight- but if you’re in rough shape-“

“I’m fine.” Jim’s voice was hoarse, but he tried to speak loudly. Hoped against hope that Oswald would hide silently in the bathroom, that Barbara would leave so he could pick up the pieces of the sweet dream the door opening had shattered. He felt as if he was in shock, as if he was empty of blood and air. “Really.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

Barbara sighed and gave him a kind but sad smile, before disappearing to their room. Jim grabbed his own shirt, throwing it on and leaving it unbuttoned, tucked Oswald’s away with his coat. Barbara returned a minute later, zipping up a small bag.

“I’ll be home tomorrow evening after work, okay?” He nodded, walking her to the door, not asking where she was going, with who. Whatever her answer was, he knew his own to the same question was worse. She hugged him, briefly, and he bent down, his head brushing her hair. Inhaled, he smelled her perfume, a sweetness that clung to everything she owned-

And another. Less sweet, subtle. But there.

Jim released her and she stepped out, closing the door behind her. He waited until her footsteps were gone before locking the door, then turning around, leaning against it and closing his eyes. He inhaled the ghost of her, sorrow and sweetness, and let it hide away in his lungs.

He was a fool to do this to her. He was a fool for so many reasons, to think that he could change Gotham, could be the kind of man the city deserved. To think he could give her everything and still be inhuman- to think that she would sit around forever while he wore them away, down to nothing but nails and bones. He was a fool, and he didn’t think he could change.

He opened his eyes only when he heard footsteps stopping in front of him. Through slotted lids, he saw Oswald watching him, concerned and ghostly himself, and Jim knew he would _always_ be a fool.

“I need to lay down,” he muttered, reaching up to scrub at his face with his hands, wanting to block the man out. With the blanket of darkness gone, with the intrusion of his reality, Jim felt his head swimming. Surely he was drowning.

*

Every bit of common sense told him to get Oswald out. Send him back to where ever-the-hell he went when he wasn’t with Jim.

“Where do you go when you’re not here?”

“Home.” The word didn’t sound comforting on Oswald’s tongue, and Jim flicked the light off, resigned to insanity for the night.

He guided Oswald, gripping his arm, through the apartment, back towards the bedroom. Neither spoke until they were in that heavy darkness, swimming in it, accepting the feeling of suffocation.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jim whispered, shoving his shirt back off, “But stay the night.”

He didn’t want to be alone with Barbara’s ghost, the smell that wasn’t her’s clinging to her hair. It was too real- it made this too true. It reminded him that she was capable of whatever he was- it reminded him that things were falling apart.

Oswald didn’t acknowledge him, but watched in the dark as Jim stripped down to his underwear, pulling at his own clothing only when Jim was under the covers, staring up at a black ceiling that could have been anything and everything.

“I’m an idiot,” he whispered, mostly to himself, as Oswald crawled in, keeping a few inches between them. Jim knew when the man’s head rested on the pillow, he’s fully take up Barbara’s place. “And when Barbara finds out what I’ve done, she’ll leave.”

“Then why am I still here?” Oswald reached out, then let his hand fall onto the bed, empty, with no touch. He was hungry for it, Jim could smell it. Contact. Heat. Something about Jim was his gravity, and it made Jim’s stomach light with excitement, buzzing around a core of rotten lead.

“Because I don’t want to be alone.” Jim exhaled, glanced over at him, saw his outline in the dark, the whites of his eyes. That was it, that was everything, all there was in Jim to fear. That loneliness, that knowledge that he existed in a world where no one else did or could or ever would-

Jim feared nothing like he did being alone.

This time when Oswald reached for him, touched his arm, Jim reached over, covered his hand with his own, allowed him to slide closer, stretch out along him. Jim felt chilled skin, so much of it, the slide of cotton of Oswald’s underwear, his socks. He almost wanted to laugh that he had left them on.

“You don’t have to be. I’m your friend. I can stay.” Jim huffed, closing his eyes.

“What makes you think we’re friends? Just because I didn’t kill you doesn’t mean I want to get drinks.” _But can you explain why you kissed him? Why you told him to trust you?_

“That was the most kindness anyone has ever shown me.” Oswald dipped his head down, kissed Jim’s shoulder- his lips were cooler now, as if he let the room steal his heat. “You saw me enough to give me a second chance. No one else ever sees me. No one else would ever even try.”

Jim hesitated a moment, then rolled over, throwing an arm around Oswald and pulling him into his chest, cradling him in a way that was too intimate, too cherishing. His chest ached, and he wondered if the man felt it too. The loneliness this city brought out in everyone.

“Shut up,” he mumbled into his hair, kissing at his skull, wanting to kiss the thoughts inside his head. Wanting to whisk them all away. Get lost and drown in them. He felt Oswald smile against his collar bone, and that was enough.

*

Jim dozed, slipped into sleep for what could have been minutes or hours. The body he held on to tossed, turned, squirmed around but did not wake him until it became too much- Oswald finding a way to get on his stomach, shifting in just the right way that jarred Jim from a black sleep. Jim had ended up on his other side, and blinked into the darkness, eyes adjusting. He rolled over, groaning a little, thinking he might wrap an arm around the man and still him, but was jarred more when Oswald whimpered, toes curling into the mattress, uncurling.

“Oswald?” Saying his name made his tongue feel heavy- or was that sleep? Jim couldn’t be sure. He reached out, traced a hand along his back, forcing him onto his side so he could pull him in. Oswald molded into him like he was melting, and Jim felt the hardness pressing against him in response. He chuckled to himself, kissed the man’s forehead, as Oswald’s eyes opened. “You were squirming up a storm.”

“Was I? Sorry.” He stretched, rubbing along Jim’s stomach. Jim wasn’t sure if Oswald was still thick in sleep and unrealizing about his won state, or if he was just that good at ignoring it. Regardless, he reached down, his hand on Oswald’s hip, fingers flexing along the cotton of his briefs.

“Yeah. And I can tell why.” Color rose in Oswald’s cheeks in the dark, a heat that Jim felt as he nuzzled in, sliding on leg between Jim’s. Jim felt his socks, the chill of cool leather- sock garters, Jim realized, and wanted to laugh that it _did_ fit his image. “Why the hell are your socks still on?”

“My feet get cold.” Oswald nuzzled under Jim’s chin as the detective laughed, running his hand along the other man’s thigh. He laughed and it pulled the sleep from him, the loneliness he had worn like a straight jacket when he fell asleep. He laughed and rocked Oswald to him and then kissed him, kissed him until Oswald was surely awake and squirming, wrapping his arms around Jim’s shoulders as the larger man rolled them over, onto Oswald’s back. He arched up, pressed along Jim, who sucked on his tongue and ran his hands along the man’s legs and hips. His mouth found Oswald’s collar bone, sucked until blood rushed against skin and could leave a bruise, as the man’s nails dug into his back.

“You’re cold all over,” Jim mumbled, grabbing his briefs and tugging them down. “All over except here.” He pressed against him, felt the heat from Oswald’s groin through his own underwear, and the man groaned, opened mouthed, back arching. Jim chuckled again, even as those hands left his back, scrambling for his underwear, pushing them down his hips until Jim’s cock was free to. Jim groaned, and Oswald took advantage of it, rolled them so Jim was on his back now. The two untangled long enough to kick the fabric away, and then Oswald was straddling Jim’s thighs, his socked feet brushing along his legs.

Jim watched as Oswald reached for him, grasped his cock and stroked him, Jim tossing his head back. Oswald rocked as he did it, left Jim gasping. When he looked up again, Oswald was still stroking him- but had his own cock in his other hand, stroking as well.

“Fuck,” Jim groaned, watching the whites of Oswald’s eyes, how they bled into the blue, how in the dark it was okay. Whatever fear he’d had earlier seemed to be trumped by excitement, and Jim was glad for it.

Oswald rocked as if it wasn’t his hand encasing Jim’s cock but his body, and Jim wondered- for a moment- what it would be like to push up into him, fill him with warmth and having him shaking in his arms. He licked his lips as his stomach tightened, husking out, “Does it feel good to touch yourself Oswald?”

Oswald nodded, worrying his lip. He sucked on the swollen flesh as he rocked, as Jim watched him stroke them both in the same rhythm.

Jim smiled to himself, hands reaching up to grasp Oswald’s hips, thrusting up as if he was going into his body and not Oswald’s hand. Oswald gasped, whined, moving in jerks, and Jim knew he was close.

“Can you cum?” Jim asked, and Oswald was nodding, biting his lip harshly. Jim smirked, reaching behind him to cup his ass, gripping flesh as Oswald tossed his head back, stilling his rocking as he cried out, evidence lost in the dark that he had ever let his hands wonder.

Jim pulled him down, ignoring the cry he got, the fact that it dislodged his hand from his cock, kissed Oswald breathless. The smaller man squirmed, clutched at him, rubbed his body long him creating a friction that Jim almost didn’t need. In the dark he let it over take him as he clutched onto Oswald as if the world might end, faded away into dust and nothing more.

Jim rocked him as they both came down from their high. Legs entangled, Jim stroking his spine, he kissed his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose.

“Not so bad in the dark,” he whispered, smiling into Oswald’s skin, “No one can see you do it.”

He meant it as a joke, but Oswald said nothing, only curled closer.

“Not true,” he whispered, shifting, settling. “Someone can always see you. This city has eyes everywhere.”

Jim waited for an explanation, and never got it. Instead Oswald closed his eyes, breathed in Jim’s scent and heat and let himself drift, drowsy. Jim felt him until he stilled, until his breathing was shallow, rhythmic, and wondered who had hurt him, somewhere in life, to leave him like this. Who had pushed him down to the state he was in, who had opened a door down a hallway Jim would never see.

Gotham. The city did it, broke the best and bred the worst. But Jim knew there was more. There was always more. He stroked Oswald’s spine again and left it to silence for the night. Come dawn he could ask, if he wanted to. If Oswald stayed long enough for it. If he kept his sanity long enough. With the sun might come broken glass and a rage that Jim knew he had in his gut somewhere. At himself, at everything, at the city.

Come morning, Barbara might leave the realm of ghost and materialize in her perfection, smelling like someone else’s perfume and smiling a secret smile she had for only someone else-

The same smile Jim knew he offered up to Oswald’s flesh.

Sighing, he let it all be. Sleep was calling, dragging its heavy fingers through his muscle, into his lungs. He let it, closed his eyes and knew these were strange times he was in, and stranger times to come. Nothing would ever be in balance in this city, he knew.

Or in his life, for that matter.


End file.
